


Oh to Be in Love

by undecimber



Series: Half Moon [2]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Light Angst, M/M, Post-Fall (Hannibal), Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-23
Updated: 2018-11-23
Packaged: 2019-08-27 23:08:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16711774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/undecimber/pseuds/undecimber
Summary: In which Will keeps a garden and Hannibal catches a flu.





	Oh to Be in Love

Will's garden was steadily coming to shape. Crocuses, daffodils, lilies of the valley –flanked by azalea shrubs which would not flower till the summer. There were two flower beds delineated by a short wooden fence that he made by hand.

It took a while to outline his plot and prepare the soil, deciding what to plant where; he'd used the aid of a beginners' gardening book, leafing through it in the living room, or in bed, while Hannibal offered sporadic suggestions; but once everything was in place, it was only a matter of tending and waiting

Will was patient. He watered his flowers, watched with anticipation, and each day he saw signs of growth, the bulbs coyly pushing out of the soil and stirring to life, he smiled to himself in a quiet, pleased way.

He already considered expanding his efforts. A vegetable patch would be practical –though a few greens may be the most he could manage now. There was great appeal to him in self-sufficiency, limiting extraneous dependence as far as he was able; growing most of their own food, fishing and hunting what meat they consumed. He pictured keeping poultry and humored himself with the image of Hannibal surrounded by a brood of clucking hens. 

That Hannibal wished for some return to society was a matter of certainty. This was not out of tedium. When Will's own frenzied pacing had worn proverbial circles round the house, hardly knowing what to do with himself, Hannibal had functioned under a self-made schedule that kept him sufficiently employed and stimulated.

It was a simple desire to be seen. To have and enjoy finer things.

Another image came to Will, then, in polar opposition to the last. A sumptuous, velvet draped opera house on the continent; him on Hannibal's arm, in a precisely fitted suit, more lavish than anything ever tailored for him before; murmurs of polite conversation; flutes of champagne.

Will brushed the snowy cup of a down-turned lily-of-the-valley with an index finger, resisting reluctance to the idea of leaving. Familiarity was as strong a compelling force as any. He was finally getting his bearings here, laying claim to the place. It was the sole mooring to his new, reinvented life.

There was another thing he tamped down also, a new anxiety that first reared its head one evening in the kitchen while their dinner bubbled on the stove.

_Earlier, Hannibal had instructed him in refining his knife skills—hovering beside him, voice pitched to an intimate rumble in the close space between them—correcting Will's hold on the knife, telling him to put his shoulder into it, to loosen his wrist, "There, that's much better."_

_Then, Will sat on the stool and followed the rest of Hannibal's preparations._

_There was endless interest in observing him. The taper of his hips, brought to emphasis by the apron slung around them. His broad shoulders and the graceful economy of his movements. Hannibal was nothing Will had ever imagined desiring, made up of parts as forceful as they were seductive –features harsh, yet startlingly delicate, whose sum was wholly alien._

_But when he covered the pot, pronouncing their meal to be ready in 20 minutes, pouring out a drink for Will, sharing an easy smile, he wasn't a swirl of complexities, fraught with artfulness or danger. He was familiar and touchable._

_Suddenly, Will was struck by the fragile balance of this space they had carved for themselves._

_ What if we got caught? _

_The thought of everything they built up from rubble demolished and scrutinized, the sanctuary of this kitchen desecrated –was too terrible to bear._

Will had to remind himself that Hannibal had spent decades undetected, cannibalizing countless hapless souls, in countless brazen ways, with hardly a trace behind. In Italy, he had made his presence known because he was reckless and heartbroken –leaving a trail in his wake for Will to find, because he'd wanted to be found.

He could have easily slipped away, after Muskrat farm. Nothing rooted him, save sentiment.

Now, with so much at stake, Hannibal would be careful again. He would protect what they had, Will was certain.

Besides, Hannibal desired it for him too –wanted to show him Europe, for them to experience it together.

He let himself linger on that.

Together.

* * *

 

Spring was in full effervescent swing: chirping birds and sweet smelling air; voluptuous clouds painted bright by the sunlight.

Stopped at one of the stalls in the market, Hannibal examined a pile of fresh strawberries –while Will felt positively amorous.

In his few past relationships, he'd been so starved for intimacy that it seized him unexpectedly, moments of his affection being close to bursting for want of expression.

He'd always felt so damn grateful that someone would look at him, look at his mess and the shadows that trailed him, and choose to remain. He made presents of his kisses, curbing the most intense pangs of yearning, letting only the tamest of feeling filter through. Entreating without words, _stay_.

What a world of difference. There was no way he could ever frighten Hannibal off with the depth of his longing. Hannibal met it with even steeper depths, further intensity. Devouring and being devoured, over and over again.

The addition of strawberries to the day's spoils concluded the trip. They had only to fill up gas from the nearest station, then homeward. 

Hannibal buckled up in the passenger seat, burlap tote bag full of produce in his lap. Will drove with the windows down.

They were out of town shortly. The grassy landscape was uniform, the road long and even, so every now and then, his glance flit back to Hannibal. A few more times, and Hannibal turned to him, eyebrow quirked. "Something on your mind?"

Will was faultlessly suave in his head as he said, "Your mouth," before pulling up to the side of the road and drawing Hannibal towards him for a plunging kiss, exacting a full-bodied shudder.

He didn't say it though. He looked away, barely containing the twitch of his lips. "Nothing."

That earned him a dry look, but Hannibal didn't press.

When they reached home, before Hannibal had a chance to undo his seat belt, Will placed a hand on his knee, making him tilt his head inquisitively. He angled for a kiss that Hannibal accepted sweetly; his hands which steadied the bag on his lap were motionless, but he dipped his body into it, surrendering his mouth.

"You could have kissed me then," he said when Will drew back, warmly amused.

"Maybe I like the anticipation," said Will, kissing him again.

* * *

 

Hannibal came down with a flu. Signs of fatigue began to show themselves in the evening, a slight sluggishness to his movements. During the night, Will could sense his discomfort, though he lay quite still; when he finally fell asleep, his breath came audibly through his slackened mouth.

In the morning, he was visibly wrecked –congested, with the beginnings of a cough, his face drawn and sickly. Will dismissed his attempt to start on breakfast and made them scrambled eggs. He steeped lemon tea for Hannibal instead of the usual coffee, sweetening it with honey.

Hannibal's state progressively worsened through the day. He took a long nap in the afternoon that left him groggy and grouchy. He coughed and sniffled a great deal and tossed restlessly through the night.

The next day, Will rose to find him wan, tendrils of hair sticking to his temple; he bent over him, touching the back of his palm to Hannibal's clammy forehead, then his neck. 

"You're burning up, baby," he murmured.

A glassy film came over Hannibal's eyes. He screwed them shut, pursed his lips unhappily and turned to his side, curling up tightly. His misery was pretty much a solid wall, with a giant scrawling sign, hung up to repel attention.

* * *

 

_Baby._

That was new. It was the sort of casual endearment he'd used with Molly often enough, without thought. It was not lost on Will that what made it slip was the sight of Hannibal, limp and febrile.

Every protective instinct in his body was on alert, fiercely keen to fuss over him and tend to his every need –wanting to wrap him up, soothe him and look after him until he was better.

That meant that soup was in order.

There were containers of stock in the freezer already, which reduced Will's work to mostly mincing garlic and chopping up vegetables –piles of onions, peppers, carrot, and celery. He fell into an easy workflow, using his recently acquired technique to make efficient cuts with the knife.

Will sautéed the vegetables in a large pot and poured thawed stock over them. While that came to a simmer, he boiled noodles in a separate pot. 

It occurred to him that Hannibal bought him soup once, when he was sick. It felt like something out of another age altogether; another one of those memories which, with retrospective knowledge, was rather unbearable.

Sitting to eat by the window of the hospital room, his conviction of his clear-eyed focus at the time; swallowing spoonfuls of savory broth that Hannibal had made just for him (wasn't that a wonder, just for Will), all the while Hannibal sat across him and knew exactly what was wrong with him, and kept it to himself.

Will swept the recollection aside, ushering it back into the mental box where he kept it compartmentalized, alongside many others of its kind. That was the only way to get by, forgiveness notwithstanding.

* * *

 

When he went out to water his flowers, Will was delighted to find that the first of his budding daffodils had come into full bloom. A perfect yellow cup, fringed by the symmetry of six lovely petals.

He crouched down to admire it, feeling a rush of pride; then, in a counter-intuitive act, he cut the flower and took it inside.

He put the daffodil in a tall glass of water that he mixed with sugar and vinegar to keep the flower fresh for longer. He brought it to the bedroom on a tray, along with Hannibal's bowl of soup, placing it on the nightstand next to him, thinking it might bring him some cheer.

Hannibal didn't spare it a look.

* * *

 

The more Hannibal retreated inwardly, the more dedicated Will was in his care. When his sweats were bad enough to soak the sheets, Will changed them and put down towels for him to lie on top off. When the chills were bad enough for his teeth to rattle, Will wrapped him up in extra covers. 

He drew a bath to bring Hannibal's fever down and gently washed him, drying him off afterwards, helping him into his clothes. He ensured that Hannibal was amply supplied with fluids, urged him to eat when his appetite was dwindled, made him take his medicine.

It took five days for Hannibal to shake off the worst of the flu. In a week, his strength was fully recovered.

He went all out, wasting no time in getting the house back to his standard of impeccable order, scrubbing, dusting and polishing. Dinner was a whole bustling affair, hours spent in the kitchen in preparation, steaming and chopping and blending things with vigor.

It would have been good to see him up and about again, if not for that wall he'd erected, still warding off Will's intrusion.

At eight on the dot, Hannibal arranged the feast on the table with a satisfied flourish, as if to say,  _here, this is how it's done_. Stuffed artichokes, mustard crusted fish with a sweet reduction, green strands of handmade spinach pasta, dressed in a light white sauce –not to mention dessert for later, which involved several layers of pastry and cream. 

It was, by all means, an excessive amount of food for two people. It looked amazing, and gave Will a horrible, sinking feeling as he took his seat. 

He tried a few bites of fish, which proved flaky and succulent, cooked to perfection. "Delicious," he said tonelessly.

Hannibal nodded, in gracious acceptance of praise.

* * *

 

And so the next few days were suffused by the type awkward civility that Will had genuinely thought they'd put behind them. They steered clear off each other, shared silent meals, slept with their backs turned to each other –until one night, Will felt the unmistakable movement of Hannibal, creeping up close behind him in bed, and, following a short pause, draping an arm across his waist.

"Are you done being sick of me?"

It sounded he way Will felt, reproachful. He hadn't intended to say it, but his pent up annoyance and frustration simply came out.

"Forgive me,” said Hannibal, with the decency to assume contrition, "I have not been myself."

"Haven't you?"

Will couldn't keep the hardness from his voice. It stung, more than he liked to admit.

A part of him reasoned that it wasn't that long ago when he had himself alternated in temperament, vacillating between hot and cold, while Hannibal met him with little other than patience, mostly. 

That was different, though, protested another part. Within his chest, Will nursed a tight knot of hurt that he was only beginning to realize may never be quite undone, never all the way. It might quiet down to the point of being forgotten, but would always find reason to be roused, to let out an un-assuaged grumble.

Hannibal had seen Will at his very worst, his lowest, most vulnerable. Afflicted with fever and hallucinations, barely clutching to consciousness, raked by seizures. Hannibal not only bore witness to it but encouraged it, exacerbating the illness. So what right had he now to shut Will out? To carry on as though Will's care were a personal affront? 

Will sat up and switched on the lamp next to him; he took a deep composing breath and made himself speak evenly. 

"If we're to share a life together, you're going to have to let me take care of you when you need it," he said. "There's nothing to be ashamed of. It's only me."

"I know."

'What then?' he wanted to demand, but didn't; it was implicit in his silence. 

Hannibal's mouth worked with what he struggled to verbalize. "It is difficult for me to...that is to say–" he stopped himself. 

Something shifted in the pause that followed. He fixed his gaze to a point on the wall, and said, with practiced containment:

"I fell gravely ill once, a long time ago. Sometime after the death of my sister."

That shocked Will into attentiveness.

"Mischa came to me in my delirium, not as I chose to keep her in my memory, but a tortured apparition. Broken. Dreadful. Weeping and calling my name."

"Did...she visit you again?"

"No, never again; but the memory was close."

He offered no further explanation. For a while, Will absorbed the significance of what he was told, his knowledge of Hannibal guiding him to slot together piece to piece, until it clicked. 

"I have seen you physically bound, yet completely nonplussed when faced with certain gruesome death,” said Will. "Of course, that isn't the same as your own body betraying you."

That elicited a minute twitch.

"Reminding you of your human limitations, however much you affect to rise above them," Will continued, aware that he was prodding an old bruise; nevertheless, he felt possessed of a callousness that made him want to drive his thumb in.

 "Your helplessness to save her."

Hannibal's eyes flared —sputtered—then cooled to ice. Bitterness twisted his mouth. "Astute as ever."

"I know that anguish, borne of helplessness,” said Will.  “You taught me it."

He didn’t hurl it as an accusation, only a statement.

Hannibal narrowed his eyes, seemed about to speak, then looked away; his face proceeded to undergo a series of peculiar, repressed expressions. It was impossible to read him.

"What? Say what you're thinking."

"You wouldn't like to hear it."

"Say it."

Hannibal licked his lower lip. "When I first met you, your singularity made it apparent that if ever there was a person to whom I could wholly reveal myself, it was you. Only you could understand me." He halted, long enough for Will to raise his eyebrows, intimating, _go on_.

"I realize now that unwittingly, my actions have created this point of connection between us, such that in baring this...long-hidden pain to you...you know it beyond empathy."

His voice was thick with emotion, every word carefully articulated. "And that pleases me; that my own hand had perfected my life's companion."

Will was momentarily blank, before the words took their impact. A flush of anger worked its way across his face, so potent it made him recoil.

"You're glad you fucked me up, so I'm the same as you. Is that what you're saying?" He grit his teeth. "Is that what you're saying to me?"

His vision went red, red—the red of Abigail's slit throat, gushing blood.

"I said you wouldn't like to hear it."

"Yes, you know me so well," Will snarled. "God, I can't be near you right now."

If he were to stay, he might commit or utter something irrevocable, so he picked himself off the bed and left the room, slamming the door behind. There was a riot of emotions roiling within him, with the urgency of something between a sob and a scream, worryingly close to hysteria. He drew breath after breath, shaking all over.

He fumbled around the cabinets in the kitchen for a drink, then poured himself a glass, downing it in one go. It burned down his throat, grounding him a little. That was good. He poured himself another.

He could get shitfaced, if he let himself. The idea had all the allure of restrained self-destruction. 

He hadn’t really let himself go that way since Hannibal’s trials. Those days, he’d nearly drunk himself to a stupor. He tilted the bottle in his hand and felt its contents slosh heavily.

Will capped the bottle and put it back in place.

He crossed to the living room with the glass he poured himself, went outside and sat on the steps of the porch. He took measured sips, continuing to focus on his breathing, in and out, letting the whisper of the trees around him calm him down. In and out, until his hands quit shaking.

* * *

 

When he re-entered the bedroom, perhaps an hour later, Hannibal was standing by the window, which he’d opened to the night air. His stance would give him view of Will's flower beds in the dark. 

The curtains, framing him, fluttered mildly. He made no move to turn. 

Quietly, he said, "I never wish to cause you pain again. Believe that, Will."

From him, that was the closest he was ever going to get to an apology.

Will slumped to the bed with a soft thud, like a mass of dead weight. He wished that he could sink into some recess of oblivion, wiped clean of the burden of consciousness.

"I thought I was done with all that. The rage, the grief. The remnants of it bottled up, consigned to the seas of loss. But," he swallowed down a lump, "The waves keep washing it back ashore."

At last, Hannibal turned to face him. His eyes looked a little red, like he might have cried.

"Come to bed," Will said, so Hannibal complied.

* * *

 

Will had Hannibal on his back, his long, lean legs spread open, his pants pushed down to his feet. Languidly, he eased two lubed fingers into him.

He'd done this often enough that he knew just how Hannibal liked it, but he held out, making him desperate for it. He picked up the pace, just enough to get Hannibal to cant his hips for more, then pulled his fingers out.

Hannibal huffed a frustrated breath.

“Touch yourself,” Will said. 

He was prodding, still, with a mixture of recklessness and a more sterile type of curiosity, wanting to see how far he could push. It was a test of sorts, though exactly what any outcome entailed was unclear to him.

Hannibal was breathing heavily, chest expanding and falling. A brief reticence, then slowly, he brought his hand to his loins and began to palm at the swollen length of him, curling his hand and sliding it up and down.

Will watched with cool detachment, following the glide of Hannibal’s hand, the growing hardness of his member. He shifted his stare to Hannibal’s face.

Hannibal’s brows were drawn together, lips suppressed, flush tingeing his skin. His embarrassment was a gossamer shroud, delicate and entirely revealing –granting Will a sudden, rapacious thrill.

As his arousal intensified, Hannibal’s cock got wetter, so that the motion of his hand produced a slick sound, distinct in the silence of the room.

“Will,” Hannibal called in a strained tone.

“Tell me." 

Two pumps of his hand. “…Please.”

"Tell me.”

Will wanted it said aloud, wanted that supplication pouring out of Hannibal’s eyes.

“I want you,” said Hannibal, in a small, breathless, voice, “I want to be stuffed full of you.”

Will surged forward to kiss him. He parted Hannibal’s lips and fed him his tongue and put his fingers back inside.

There was an interlude of much kissing and fingering, until Hannibal made an impatient sound and pushed Will’s hand away, muttering, “Enough of that.”

Finally, Will pushed into the gripping heat of his body with one long, smooth, stroke. 

As he set a rhythm, he found himself utterly lost to Hannibal’s pleasure, his own becoming secondary. It was an echo of his former detachment, transmuted, so it were as though the act was not committed by himself; but in place of unruffled coolness, there was now effusive abundance, enthralled by every one of Hannibal’s expressions and noises.

He thrust in deeply and ground his hips, fucking moan after moan out of Hannibal. “You like that, baby?” he cooed, helplessly.

Hannibal was completely given over, open-mouthed and dazed, supple as a young branch underneath Will. His climax wrung out tremors from the very core of him.

He sagged against the pillow, panting. When Will pulled out, he brought his legs together, guiding Will to thrust between his thighs, until he spent himself.

Afterwards, he let Will clean him up. He appeared to fall into a pensive mood, very still and quiet. He didn’t seem upset, but there was an absent look in his eye that made Will uncertain.

“You alright?” touching his chin.

He nodded with a smile, small but genuine (the first one in days not to incite a homicidal urge with its blandness). Will turned off the light and settled back into bed, consciously keeping to himself in case Hannibal wanted space.

He had started to doze off, when Hannibal sidled up to him, much in the same way from earlier, draped all along his back, putting an arm over him. He was so warm, so comforting to be held by. Relief so sharp as to hurt. Will brought up a hand, resting it on top of Hannibal’s. “I missed you,” he admitted.

Hannibal nuzzled and kissed the nape of his neck, dotingly.

“I’m right here,” he said.

And so he was.

* * *

 

Will was first to wake up in the morning, having to extract himself from underneath Hannibal’s weight. Hannibal shifted, but remained asleep, head lolling back.

Will noted the skin by the sides of his nostrils, still slightly ruddy and irritated from all the times he blew his nose the past week. Somehow, that made him smile. 

He stood up and went to the window that Hannibal left open last night. Peering outside, he looked down at his little patch of garden, where for weeks he had poured his patience and care.

The crocuses were a dainty sprinkle of white and violet, the occasional drop of yellow. The rest of the daffodils had come to blossom too.

Some things could not be replaced, he thought, but there was always room to grow.

**Author's Note:**

> A draft of this has been sitting around since April (you read that right, April), scrapped twice because it was dull, flat, terrible, the worst piece of writing in all of history, etc. Initially, I had zero plans to revisit Half Moon anyway, so I thought I’d just drop it.
> 
> WELP! Inspiration decided to strike this week, I guess.
> 
> No idea if I’ll ever write more in this "series" in the future, but I’m open to it, so who knows :-)
> 
> Anyway, hope you guys liked it.


End file.
